Vienda -Woven Delights
The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719, Thirty-five minutes past the Nineteenth Hour
The Thirty-third of Vortas 2719, Thirty-five minutes past the Nineteenth Hour
A
nd when, he thinks, looking at the Weaver grow flashing-fierce and all too full of sorrow, did you purchase yourself back? That she has done so is apparent, obvious. She is no one’s creature. Not any longer. By what means and through what coin had the commodity, the prized pet, bought herself a proper life? Bought herself a soul? Is there a market for these? Some strange bazaar on the far side of sleep where grasping, nameless things offer up discarded hope and unused dreams to form together the semblance of being? If there is such a place, he has never seen it. Perhaps it is gone now, the last unused scraps bought and stitched into place by the Weaver.
All to the good. He cannot afford the luxury of a soul. The turnings of the machine will have to serve; a process in the place of a possession.
He feels no guilt at the welling tears in the Weaver’s eyes. They, like all things here, are her own, and dearly bought. Genuine, in all probability. Tears may be faked, emotions made counterfeit, but this seems unlikely. Unseemly. What sorrow and rage she has is real and burning. How much do you hate Trevisani? He nearly asks out loud. No, that would be foolish, fatal. More than he can fathom, more than he ever wishes to fathom. From but one meeting he developed a distaste. Upon learning her axel-role in the Dorehaven conspiracy, he has come to hate her. And from the Weaver, he learns to despise her. A small sampling of the Red Madame.
It will be a duty and a joy to see her undone. To see them all undone.
“I will make inquiries where and when I can about the other girls. I require the fullest picture of the operation that can be drawn.” He means no insult, no slight at the Weaver’s information. It is invaluable. It is incomplete. A considerable portion of the pattern, but not enough to work out the whole design. He must have more data. The evidence must be water-tight, the sources must verified against each other.
Sources must be protected.
That is his mother talking, an axiom of her profession. It is sound advice. He will take it under advertisement. “And Miss,” he says, “are you quite safe from her here? Does she know your location, your habits and mode of life? Or have you so altered your situation and person that she would not think to find you in this place?” The Painted Ladies is a long way to fall for the pampered pet of an Incumbent. A long way to rise from being a beautifully trained piece of meat.
He can offer her no real protections. His aegis is limited. Already over-extended. Protection is not what is required, not quite. Warnings, information, those are of greater value. And those perhaps he can provide. Bailey is prowling about here somewhere, knows this district, was born here. The boy’s senses are sharp, his instincts good. They are why he is here at all today. He will thank the boy later. First with remuneration, and then with more work. The latter, he thinks, will have the greater value.
“You said before you feared her. I think it is wise you continue in that. Be watchful miss.” He does not know what to expect from the Red Madame. Not yet. She will have her own agents, her own enforcers, the same as any other established criminal. Criminal. A good job then that he employs one of his own.
He has been here too long. He does not need to check his watch to know a great deal of time has passed. Too long to leave without the tokens of commerce.
“The silk.” He had forgotten it. Forgotten amid all the other thoughts. She has reminded him; just as a proper merchant should. It is well and prettily done. “Yes, I would like to purchase some. Three yards should be more than enough.” She has risen now, and he moves to make way for her. This is her place, her domain. It is proper custom that he should follow.
Who is he to defy custom?
All to the good. He cannot afford the luxury of a soul. The turnings of the machine will have to serve; a process in the place of a possession.
He feels no guilt at the welling tears in the Weaver’s eyes. They, like all things here, are her own, and dearly bought. Genuine, in all probability. Tears may be faked, emotions made counterfeit, but this seems unlikely. Unseemly. What sorrow and rage she has is real and burning. How much do you hate Trevisani? He nearly asks out loud. No, that would be foolish, fatal. More than he can fathom, more than he ever wishes to fathom. From but one meeting he developed a distaste. Upon learning her axel-role in the Dorehaven conspiracy, he has come to hate her. And from the Weaver, he learns to despise her. A small sampling of the Red Madame.
It will be a duty and a joy to see her undone. To see them all undone.
“I will make inquiries where and when I can about the other girls. I require the fullest picture of the operation that can be drawn.” He means no insult, no slight at the Weaver’s information. It is invaluable. It is incomplete. A considerable portion of the pattern, but not enough to work out the whole design. He must have more data. The evidence must be water-tight, the sources must verified against each other.
Sources must be protected.
That is his mother talking, an axiom of her profession. It is sound advice. He will take it under advertisement. “And Miss,” he says, “are you quite safe from her here? Does she know your location, your habits and mode of life? Or have you so altered your situation and person that she would not think to find you in this place?” The Painted Ladies is a long way to fall for the pampered pet of an Incumbent. A long way to rise from being a beautifully trained piece of meat.
He can offer her no real protections. His aegis is limited. Already over-extended. Protection is not what is required, not quite. Warnings, information, those are of greater value. And those perhaps he can provide. Bailey is prowling about here somewhere, knows this district, was born here. The boy’s senses are sharp, his instincts good. They are why he is here at all today. He will thank the boy later. First with remuneration, and then with more work. The latter, he thinks, will have the greater value.
“You said before you feared her. I think it is wise you continue in that. Be watchful miss.” He does not know what to expect from the Red Madame. Not yet. She will have her own agents, her own enforcers, the same as any other established criminal. Criminal. A good job then that he employs one of his own.
He has been here too long. He does not need to check his watch to know a great deal of time has passed. Too long to leave without the tokens of commerce.
“The silk.” He had forgotten it. Forgotten amid all the other thoughts. She has reminded him; just as a proper merchant should. It is well and prettily done. “Yes, I would like to purchase some. Three yards should be more than enough.” She has risen now, and he moves to make way for her. This is her place, her domain. It is proper custom that he should follow.
Who is he to defy custom?
